


Number Games

by Prosodi



Category: Tron (1982)
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, M/M, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-31
Updated: 2012-01-31
Packaged: 2017-10-30 10:03:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,536
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/330532
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Prosodi/pseuds/Prosodi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set somewhere in the gap between the 1982 movie and Tron: Legacy (mild, mild spoilers for the latter). Flynn's working on a new system; they make a good team.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Number Games

Alan knows that Flynn doesn't like playing the number games - not in the way he's supposed to anyway, not how the Encom board wants him to. They're all about stocks and marketing and how much trading they're doing, profit margins. Flynn's good enough with it because he's good at numbers in general and good at talking to people and getting them to say things they might not to someone else, but that doesn't mean he likes it or that he puts any effort into it. Alan suspects that Flynn would forget about the politics of running a company if he wasn't being actively reminded by a secretary, by worried side long glances and sometimes, Alan.

Still, the board meeting goes alright - well enough that Alan forgets what he was supposed to ask and has to swing back up to Flynn's office at the end of the day, meaning to invite him to Lora's birthday party next weekend. His secretary isn't there to stop him so Alan just lets himself in.

Flynn is at his desk, though he isn't working. The chair is turned, it's back to the door. The light coming off the tabletop catches across the leather upholstery, sharp blues. From where he's standing Alan can just see how Flynn sits: slouched down, his pale blue cotton suit jacket rumpled around his armpits and shoulders. He's looking out the office windows and across the city with all it's dark angles and sharp points of light: white and blue and red.

"Flynn?"

He turns the chair around. Taps his fingers across the desk top and the blue light shrinks away with a few nondescript beeps and whirrs. "Hey man, what's happening?"

Alan adjusts his glasses and shrugs. "We're having a thing for Lora's birthday next week. Saturday, 3'o'clock."

Flynn has his arm up, hand behind his neck. He hooks one foot up on the desk, the other. "Oh sure," he says, shifting in the chair. It twists idly one way and then the other. "Sure, I'll be there."

"What are you working on up here?"

That grin he gets is easy in all the right places, slides into place on Flynn's face like it's the only thing that belongs there. "A new interface."

"A new information grid?" Alan starts to put his briefcase down. "Anything I can help with?"

Like Flynn needs help. Like Flynn ever need their help. Except, Alan reminds himself -- except it had taken the three of them, hadn't it? The first time?

"Not yet," Flynn says, cutting the thought short. Alan hesitates and reevaluates his grip on the briefcase handle. "But I'll let you know when it's ready, when I do."

"Oh, sure. Well," Alan balks, shifts. Turns back to go. "Saturday, 3'o'clock."

He's about to go, turn the handle, take the elevator downstairs, find his car in the parking garage and get home, kiss his wife on the forehead - Lora's been sick with the flu for three days straight -- "Alan?" says Flynn. He stops, turns back.

"Yeah?"

"Tron's your program, but I was wondering if I could import his data into this new system. See how it works out." Flynn's looking straight at him, no hesitation except there's something weird quirked into the corner of his mouth. Like he isn't sure what Alan's going to say.

"Sure, I don't mind. I mean, if you want. It's kind of out-dated though, I could write you something new? You know, I've been thinking-"

"No man, don't worry about it." Flynn waves his hand at the wrist, "It's just a little test, Tron's fine."

It isn't until he's driving home that he starts to think about how weird Flynn's choice of words was. Alan repeats them, the car's headlights a pale blueish white on the asphalt.

"His data?" Alan muses. The truck ahead of him brakes: a lazy flash of red in the darkness.

\--

It's warm. Alan tries not to stand in the streamers of heat coming off the barbecue, balances his drink in one hand and his spatula in the other. The patio's not really crowded. It's just a couple of guys from down in the lab, two women from accounting - Alan doesn't know how Lora knows them unless it's from bickering about pay stubs every other week. It's people from work and mostly ones Lora used to share shifts with. Alan doesn't see a single board member and there's relief in that. He talks about math for almost twenty minutes with some guy named Channing. He doesn't think about the stock numbers or the files on his desk.

Sometimes, he misses his cubicle. The bigger office he has now probably won't ever be the same kind of familiar.

Flynn's late. When he comes around through the side gate, he's all canted lines, the open angle of his elbow. He kisses Lora on the cheek and she shoves him off but catches him again by the cuff of his shirt sleeve. It's a button up shirt, rumpled like he's been to the office that morning, or maybe like he never went home. The top three buttons are undone.

"Happy birthday," Alan hears him say. He flips a burger and it hisses on the grill. "Here."

It's a small box and Lora undoes the ribbon. She tucks it in the front pocket of his pants and laughs when she opens the box. "What's this?"

"What's this?" Like he's affronted. "What's this? This is a handheld copy of Space Paranoids. So next time you're laid up in bed - and I don't mean with Alan, because that's not how you should be multitasking - you can entertain yourself. I took the liberty of importing my high score. Look, there's a battery pack."

After a few minutes the handheld is being passed around to the delight of the party. Flynn leaves them to it and ambles over to where Alan is trying not to muck up lunch.

"Smells good."

Alan snorts, shrugs. "Thanks." He sets his drink down and tries to wipe his glasses off his shirt collar. His fingers are all grey from the charcoal.

Flynn has his head tipped, face turned back toward the rest of the festivities. Someone swears and laughs and the handheld game is passed on to the next person. "How's your interface coming?" Alan prompts him.

"Oh, it's alright." Flynn glances back around, "That reminds me. I was wondering if you could put some elbow grease into Tron, buff him up for the new system - you know."

"Sure, but-- Tron's an old system, Flynn. It'd probably just be easier to write something new for the beefed up parameters of whatever you're working with. I've been talking to a few guys in the old department and--"

Flynn laughs. His open palm claps on Alan's shoulder, strong enough to jar him. "Nah, man. I've already got the system retrofitted to be compatible. The program just needs some tweaks."

Alan flips two more of the burgers. "If you want to mess with the coding, I'm fine with it Flynn. You probably have a better idea about what needs to be done anyway."

"No." It's quick, sharp. Alan looks askance at him. Someone else crashes and burns on Space Paranoids.

Flynn shrugs, rolling his sleeves up to the elbow. "Hold it, this is driving me nuts." He licks his thumb and reaches up, scrubs it across the highpoint of Alan's cheek. "Man, you're covered in ash. You blow at this barbeque thing."

He wipes his hand on his shirt; It leaves a smudge. Flynn's shoulders are canted away from the rest of the party, like he's forgotten there are other people on the patio. "Tron's your program. It'd be weird to mess around in it. I don't need more of my own code on the new grid; better to have a second set of eyes and you're what makes Tron unique."

Alan doesn't really know how to respond. It's warm and there's heat coming off the grill and he can feel sweat prickling under the collar of his shirt. Flynn's has his hands on his hips and his elbow brushes against Alan's side.

"Alright," Alan sighs. "Get me the details."

Flynn grins. "Sure man, sure. Your desk, tomorrow."

"Tomorrow's Sunday."

"Monday, then. Unless you want me to bring it here."

"Here's fine."

"I could just write it down now--"

"You're going back to work after this, right?" Alan asks.

Flynn looks momentarily guilty then grins wider, shrugs. "Probably."

"Then just bring it by tonight on your way home."

"Cool," There's an air to satisfaction about every inch of him. Alan scrapes the overcooked patties onto a plate and Flynn licks his lips. "Looks good," he says. Alan doesn't know if he's joking or not.

\--

Flynn is late to the meeting - and not just slightly, but unreasonably so. He looks tired and keyed up all at once and talks a million words a minute, managing to blow away everyone even after they've been waiting for him to show up for almost an hour. Alan almost forgets that he should be angry, worried maybe. Flynn isn't his responsibility by any stretch of the imagination - no one thinks that, not even the other controlling members of the company who probably would like it if someone would take Flynn by the scruff of the neck and shake him.

Alan hangs back after despite that. He waits until the last overseas investor is filed beyond the door. Flynn leaning across the table, pouring himself a glass of water from the sleek black pitcher. Alan closes the door. He doesn't want anyone in the hall to overhear when he asks Flynn "Are you alright? Is there something wrong?"

Flynn chugs down the whole glass of water and pours another. "What? No man, I'm good."

"This is the third time you've been late to a meeting."

"Hey, I showed up to this one didn't I?" He raises his glass and grins, all teeth, as he unbuttons his grey jacket with his other hand.

"That's not-- Come on, I'm not kidding here."

"It's fine, Alan. It's just time management. You know how it is; meetings aren't really my thing."

So it's the new system that's been taking up all his time. Not surprising - he's been running all kinds of tests - Alan knows because he's seen fragments of the data. It's impressive. He doesn't need to ask how Flynn could lose track of time because it's good work, but more because it's Flynn and of course he'd take computers and algorithms over company meetings. Hell, just the bits and pieces Flynn gives to him are interesting enough to distract Alan for the time it takes to look at it all on a surface level. It would probably take days to dissect the layers and layers of code Flynn is probably building into his new system. And sure, it's Flynn's thing. Alan gets that. He just wishes that--

"Tron's been a real help, by the way - bringing up all kinds of holes I wouldn't have caught as fast."

Against his will, Alan lets himself by lulled by the compliment. He should still be angry. "We make a good team," he says.

Flynn looks at him sideways and then takes a long drink from his glass. He sets it down on the table top with a clink and taps his other thumb on the tabletop. The pressure of his touch brings up the user menu on the table's touch screen and the computer rattles out a rigid, familiar "How can I help you, Mister Flynn?"

"Yeah, we do," Flynn says, looking at Alan.

Alan sniffs. "Try not to be late again."

The door opens behind his shoulder and Alan shifts sideways to allow three bristling board members to come back in. They're after Flynn's throat and Alan doesn't want to get caught between them. Flynn raises his glass to him as he backs out into the hall. Someone shuts the door after him but not before Alan can hear one of them start in, clearly trying his best to be politic but unable to keep the anger from bubbling up into every syllable: "Look here Flynn, those were important investors--"

Alan should still be angry. Instead his hands drift into his pockets on the way to the elevator.

\--

When Flynn finally gets tired of Encom's bullshit, it's easy to guess where he's gone off to. The arcade's sign is off, but all the games are running and it's loud enough that Alan has to raise his voice. Flynn's playing one of his games and the company's stocks are all over the place. Alan says "If you worked this hard at everything else, the board would love you."

Flynn doesn't miss a beat, doesn't even look up and half shouts, "Whatever man. I think they can live without my undivided attention." He beats or loses the game - the former is more likely - and looks up at Alan. There music drowns him out so he has to say it twice before Alan catches it: "I think there's a couple of beers upstairs."

Flynn leaves everything running downstairs probably because he doesn't care and, Alan thinks, probably because he likes the noise. In the lounge they drink a couple of beers between them while Flynn futzes with one of his dinky hand held things, sprawled across the couch with both his feet propped up. The swirling lights of the game stations on the floor below reflect off the ceiling of the arcade and come in through the glass, playing off Flynn's face, catching in his hair and along the knuckles of his hands.

Alan doesn't bring up business until Flynn mentions something he's working on and without thinking about it, Alan says "You think that's compatible with the last upgrades?"

Flynn pauses. He puts the thing down on his chest and has to tip his head back to frown up at him. Alan's sitting at the end of the couch. "I don't know if I want it to be," Flynn says, sharp.

"Then what do you want?" Alan can hear himself getting angry but wants Flynn to answer the question. That's all he wants from him.

Flynn huffs out a laugh, half disbelief like he doesn't know how to deal with himself or Alan or something else entirely. It's the kind of sound he makes when he doesn't really get what's going on and is pretending he does. He squirms. Alan watches him.

Finally his mouth stops working and he looks back. He says, "Come here."

It's hard to say no to Kevin Flynn.

So he doesn't. But first Alan puts his half empty beer bottle down and toes off his shoes and he takes off his jacket, hanging it over the arm of the couch. Flynn waits, one hand still on the handheld and his other at the back of his neck, the point of his elbow yawning out against the back cushion of the couch. It's all deliberate and Alan starts to take off his glasses. Flynn makes a low noise. "Hey, don't," is what he says.

"They get in the way," Alan tries to tell him, and Flynn snorts and shifts, reaches up and back and snags him by the front of his shirt. "Whatever, man." He pulls Alan down to an awkward mismatched kiss; Flynn's nose bumps his chin. It's fumbling, more lower lip than anything, but Flynn doesn't push and nothing changes until Alan makes a frustrated noise and shifts over to where he can do it right.

It's easy at first, not really careful but not really anything else either - just is; Flynn is all lax and loose limbs under him and there's a narrow space between the two of them that goes uncontested. Then Flynn's hand leaves where he's had it tucked up behind him and the lines of his body go sharp as he closes in with mechanical precision, hand eye coordination so sharp he doesn't have to look to catch Alan's hip and pull him down. Alan thinks this is how it'll always be with Flynn: sharp, defining movements and heat coming off him with only the barest spaces between in which he's supposed to somehow navigate.

Flynn kisses him hard. The handheld is sharp between them and Alan finally has to shift over and put it gently down on the floor - hard to do because Flynn is taking advantage of the lull. He has his hands up in that space and is undoing the buttons on Alan's shirt.

Flynn makes a noise, and Alan looks down the line of his nose at him. "What?" he demands; Flynn already has his shirt open.

"It comes off," he says and grins and spreads his hot hand over Alan's cool belly. He grins.

"What?" Alan asks again.

"Nothing."

Alan hesitates, steadies himself with a hand on the back of the couch. He should probably ask again. He should probably do...something. Flynn's thumb is working up and down in a line on his stomach. So Alan kisses him, thinks maybe he catches Flynn off guard because he starts a little, opens his mouth to Alan and makes a vague noise. Flynn's undoing Alan's belt. Alan has Flynn's shirt up around his armpits.

They don't waste time and it doesn't take Flynn long to have both of them out and in hand. Alan keeps kissing him as Flynn jerks them both off. The edge of his glasses keep catching and bumping; Flynn grunts, "Ow," but the touch and the slide of skin on skin is warm and sharp. Nothing changes.

"God you're hot," Flynn mumbles into his mouth. Alan makes a noise like he's laughing - except he's not because Flynn's palm is square, his fingers are blunt and he has a callous on the inside of his first finger's knuckle from playing video games. More importantly he knows exactly when to squeeze and pull and he knocks Alan's hand away when he goes to help, because Flynn doesn't want the perfect rhythm he's established to be thrown off. So Alan makes a noise like he's laughing because it's a stupid thing to say. He doesn't think that maybe Flynn means it literally, that he's talking about the heat of skin and the shift of their clothes and the way the springs in the couch creak with the half desperate way their bodies move.

Alan gets his arm tangled between Flynn's shoulder and the back of the couch. It gives him enough leverage so that when he comes he doesn't shudder down on top of Flynn in a heap. His hips jerk and his back bows and he makes a tangled noise which Flynn swallows. Alan stays there, mouth grazing the rough angle of Flynn's jaw, and listens numbly as Flynn brings himself off: his breathing getting sharper and he swears once or twice, but when Flynn actually finishes he just curves up silently into the space between them.

Then he settles. Flynn breathes out an ragged laugh. Alan gets his hands moving, his arms working, and his sits up. He regards Flynn for a few seconds: sprawled out with his legs open, his jeans undone and caught around his square hips. His face is open and flush, hair at angles and arms akimbo. Flynn licks his swollen lips and laughs again.

"You look like," Flynn starts to say, shifting. He pulls his t-shirt off over his head and is temporarily trapped in it. Alan tiredly helps him free. "You're a mess," Flynn says.

He uses the shirt to clean them up. It isn't until he's done that Alan gets his feet under him and does up his belt buckle, all of his shirt buttons. Flynn hikes his underwear and his jeans up but doesn't bother to do the fly. He rolls off the couch and lunges to his feet, scrubbing his hair back.

Alan finishes the rest of his lukewarm beer while Flynn is digging around in the mess built up into the corners of the lounge. By the time he swings back around, Alan already has his shoes on. He's shrugging his jacket back on too and checking his pockets for his keys. He hadn't really planned on staying.

"Here," Flynn says, catches the collar of his coat in one hand. He pulls it open and clips a pager to Alan's belt.

"What that for?"

Flynn looks at him like he doesn't have an answer or maybe like he doesn't know why Alan's asking. "In case I need to get hold of you, man. That's usually what they're for."

"Jesus Christ, Flynn."

"What? That's seriously what they're for. I call the number and it beeps and you--"

"Not that. Just." Alan doesn't really know, or at least doesn't know how to talk about it. Finally he asks, "Are you coming to work tomorrow?"

Flynn doesn't even look at him. He starts to do up the buttons of Alan's coat. "I don't see why not."

It's dark up here and the lights from the arcade games come up through the glass. They blink yellow and red and white. When Flynn is done with the buttons Alan tells him goodnight and he leaves the arcade.


End file.
